


Ergo

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [5]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Historical, M/M, Monks, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: The straw in the bed is nicer and cleaner than expected. It still smells like a golden afternoon spent lying in the late summer grass after a swim with the other squires, and not like must, mildew, and manure.





	Ergo

**Author's Note:**

> The Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. I created this story as a work of whatiffery, not profit.

_Ergo -- Therefore_

* * *

The Prelate's office is the most opulent room he's seen in over a decade, making the nicely decorated but functional furnishings of Mother Superior's back at the convent seem spartan by comparison. He notices that Diarmuid can't help but goggle at the heavy crimson draperies by the windows and the fanciful tapestries adorning the smoothly plastered walls. A crucifix above a small ivory diptych are the only religious items in the room, though it's possible that one of the tomes on the Prelate's desk is a book of hours or a psalter.

The Prelate is a Norman come to Waterford as one of the gaggle who cling to the de Braose or some other prominent family's coattails in the hopes of making their fortunes. The Prelate speaks no Irish, only French and Latin. That the Prelate wears fine linen with stole of silk and that this room is furnished the way it is speaks of his wealth. That he's not a bishop, or the abbot of an important monastery means he's either bungled the politics, or his family is out of favor at the moment. Bitterness pinches the corners of his mouth.

The Prelate's secretary, a young, red headed priest named Gosmungo -- he can only imagine how a Scot came to be in Ireland in service to a Norman priest -- translates for them. 

"We need to go back," Diarmuid says, "We need to tell the abbot and our brothers what has happened to us, and how the relic was lost." He pauses, swallows hard, and continues, "We should also send a message to our Holy Father in Rome, so that he can know what happened to the relic and of the last miracle it worked." Diarmuid's eyes flick over and catch his for the barest of moments.

The Prelate mmmms and finally says, "These are dangerous times, Brother Diarmuid, dangerous times. The land is unsettled."

He bites his tongue to hold back a chortle, because he and Diarmuid know all too well _exactly_ how dangerous and unsettled the land is, as well as who is to blame.

Through the three day scruff of beard on Diarmuid's face, he sees a muscle tighten at the edge of his jaw, but Diarmuid's voice is calm as he speaks, "Waterford is not our home. Our pilgrimage is over, and my friend and I need to return to Kilmanan so we can rejoin our brothers in their labors."

The Prelate steeples his hands and says, "Very well, Brother Diarmuid, I will make inquiries."

Gosmungo takes them aside as they exit the room. He doesn't have to say anything, it's all in his eyes. They are, at best, an afterthought to the Prelate, but whatever he does or doesn't do, Gosmungo means to see them equipped and provisioned. "I will ask among my mother's family to see about safe passage as far as the city of Cork," he says quietly.

"And who are your mother's people?" Diarmuid asks softly.

"McAuliffe."

Which explains how he's here as a secretary. The McAuliffes are related to the MacCarthys who control the southwest of Ireland and are still influential, despite Norman control, in the former Kingdom of Desmond, but the McAuliffes are not the line of chiefs and kings. So here Gosmungo is, a family name and connections enough to get him this far, but no further. 

Something he understands all too well.

Gosmungo sees them supplied with fresh clothes, braes and a tunic for him and a habit for Diarmuid -- not new, but clean and well made -- and one of the junior priests is a deft hand at cobbling, so Gosmungo sets him to boot cleaning and repair. What's left of Diarmuid's shoes are hopeless, so he's given a new pair, better made than his old ones. Good leather is much easier come by in Waterford than it is amongst the stones near Kilmanan.

"We have nothing to give him or to this church," Diarmuid frets after they are shown a bed in the dormitory for visiting priests and lay clergy.

He shrugs and nods in reply. A part of him fears that Gosmungo _is_ being too nice and will want some form of payment later. Another part of him answers that Gosmungo could be using them for some sort of undermining of the Prelate. Neither puts them in a good place. A small part hopes that Gosmungo is up to no more than simple hospitality to fellow Irishmen who've had a hard time of it lately … life has taught him to be suspicious of such hopes.

But there is nothing else to be done in the meantime, except eat and go to evening prayers.

~oo(0)oo~

The straw in the bed is nicer and cleaner than expected. It still smells like a golden afternoon spent lying in the late summer grass after a swim with the other squires, and not like must, mildew, and manure.

He tries to focus on that memory instead of the feel of Diarmuid in bed next to him, snuggled in for the warmth.

It almost works.


End file.
